The Reason Why
by UltimateGryffindork
Summary: Mycroft Holmes had never been good with illness. After an unexpected phone call from his brother, Sherlock, their relationship spirals downwards. Pre-canon.


The stapler had run out of staples. Again.

23-year-old Mycroft Holmes leant down into his desk drawer to get a new pack, and insert them into the stapler. Well, he says desk. More like, a place to sit when he needs a table to do his work.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy his job. He did – sometimes. He'd just hoped that an Oxford graduate with a degree in Philosophy, Politics and Economics would be doing more than stapling leaflets with the slogan 'Vote Blair' in white on a red background, with that iconic toothy grin underneath it. His dream was to be a politician; one of those influential people who ruled the country behind the scenes. So far, the closest he'd got was as the temp for the Labour party. Well, that wasn't exactly fair. The closest he'd got was "You're doing a fine job there, Holmes! If I'm every Prime Minister, I'll make sure you have an important job!" with a jovial smile, followed by, "That's very kind of you, Mr Brown."

Mycroft was interrupted from his stapling by the phone ringing.

"Hello, Labour Party offices. How can I help?"

"Mycroft? It's me."

It was Sherlock; Mycroft's younger brother. They had barely spoken since Mycroft's graduation, when Sherlock happily went up to Mycroft's tutor and explained that his wife was having an affair with the Dean of the college. Mycroft had felt so humiliated by his brother's behaviour; he hadn't quite forgiven him yet.

"Sherlock, this is a really bad time. I'm at work."

"It's Mummy."

Mycroft let out a deep sigh, before responding, "What about her?"

"She's got worse, Mycroft. The doctors say… the doctors are saying that she doesn't have long left."

Mycroft had never been good with illness. He didn't know what to say, or what to do. He tended to act as if it didn't exist – and if he was forced to face it, he would just ignore it.

Which was why he simply said "Tell her to get better soon from me," before going to hang up.

"NO! Mycroft… you have to come home."

"Sherlock, I can't just go home… I have a very important job, that needs to be done. This could make or break my career. I can't just leave."

He could practically hear his brother rolling his eyes on the other side of the telephone line.

"Mycroft, I can't look after her by myself. And Father's drinking has got worse since she became this ill. You can't…"

"I can do whatever I like."

"…you can't leave me here with Father."

Mycroft counted to ten very slowly. _Although, _he thought to himself, _with Sherlock you need to learn some bigger numbers. Such as 10 million._

"Sherlock, you will be fine. You don't need me to look after you. You're 16, you should be able to look after yourself."

There was a long silence.

"But, Mycroft… you know what Father's like when he's been drinking."

But Mycroft didn't know what Father was like when he'd been drinking. He'd only started drinking when their mother had first been diagnosed, which was after Mycroft had left for University - although Mycroft had a suspicion that the drinking was more to do with looking after Sherlock full time than worrying about his wife.

And if there had been an uncharacteristic tremor in Sherlock's voice when he had brought it up…. Mycroft chose to ignore it.

"You will be fine. Now, I need to go back to work. Give Mummy my best."

And with that, he hung up.

The funeral was a quiet affair, with only close friends and family. Mycroft sat with his brother and father on the front row. Sherlock was sat with silent tears running down a bruised face. If there was one thing that Mycroft was worse with than illness, it was crying. Their father was just sitting there, apparently bored. But Mycroft could already smell the alcohol on his breath.

It was at the meal afterwards, a buffet in the church hall, when Mycroft spoke to Sherlock again. He'd been flitting around all afternoon, talking politely to relatives asking about work, when he saw his younger brother sitting, by himself, having not eaten anything. Had it been anyone else, he would have paid no attention; but Sherlock should be going round, reminding women of their failed diets and loudly announcing who was sleeping with who. But he wasn't.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

The glare he got in return was one that Mycroft rarely received. It was usually saved for David Anderson, their father's drinking partner.

"Of course I'm alright. I'm at my own mother's funeral. I'm the very image of spiffing."

But the biting sarcasm that Mycroft was accustomed to wasn't there.

"Where did you get that bruise?"

Mycroft wasn't exactly sure why he asked the question when he already knew the answer.

"It was just a fight at school."

It was a lie, and they both knew it.

"Mycroft, can I come and live with you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

There were plenty of sensible answers to this question. 'I live in an apartment with space for a bed and a sink and that's about it.' 'You have to go to school.' 'I barely earn enough to feed myself'.

But none of those answers were the one he gave. To this day, Mycroft Holmes will regret saying this. But he was selfish, and he was grieving, and he didn't know how, so he took it out on his brother.

"Because you're just a child. I'm an adult now, with a job, and responsibilities, and a place of my own. I don't need you hanging round."

He regretted as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but he didn't know how to apologise. He'd never apologised for anything; it was on that dreaded list, along with crying and illness.

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

The stapler had run out of staples. Again.

As Mycroft Holmes leant down to get some more – the 'Tories caused the strikes' leaflets piled neatly on the table – the phone rang.

"Hello, this is Labour Party offices. How can I help?"

"I was hoping to speak to a Mycroft Holmes? This is Dr Hamish Watson. From St. Thomas' Hospital."

"…speaking."

"Ahh, Mr Holmes. Your brother Sherlock has just been admitted; you're listed as next of kin. As he's over 16 he doesn't need someone with him, but we need an adult for when he's discharged."

"But what about my father? I could give you the number, it''s – "

"Mr Holmes, your father has been arrested."

Mycroft immediately hung up the phone, tidied up the leaflets and the stapler, and ran to grab his coat and clock out. "Family emergency!" he yelled behind him to the bewildered secretary.

As he sat in the taxi – a luxury his salary could not usually provide – he thought over what had happened. Sherlock, his baby brother, in hospital, and his father arrested – why hadn't he seen this coming? He'd known, deep down, that Sherlock was being beaten when their father had had too much to drink. Why hadn't he done anything about it?

The taxi drive took longer than Mycroft thought was possible, until it finally arrived at the hospital. He leapt out of the taxi, and ran towards the emergency entrance.

"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes?" he panted.

The secretary directed him to the right room, and he raced off, shouting his thanks as he ran up the stairs.

When he reached the right ward, he skidded to a halt by where Sherlock was. His brother, somehow looking smaller than he ever had despite his recent growth spurt, was deathly pale, his arm in a cast, and some bandages clearly visible under his hospital gown. He was lying, looking at the ceiling, reciting what appeared to be the periodic table under his breath.

Mycroft tentatively approached him, not sure whether or not he would be welcome.

"Mycroft." Of course, Sherlock would know it had been him.

"Sherlock are you – are you ok?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his reciting. "Carbon, atomic number 6, typical mass number 12. Nitrogen, atomic number 7, typical mass number 14. Oxygen, atomic number 8, typical mass number, 16."

As he continued, a short, grey-haired doctor came in, clutching a clipboard.

"You must be Mycroft Holmes?" he offered a hand to shake. "I'm Dr Watson, Sherlock's doctor. He's got two broken ribs and a broken arm, as well as some serious bruising around the face and chest. However, his internal organs are all fine, so nothing to worry about there."

"I could have told you that," Sherlock butted in, distractedly, before continuing with 'Copper'.

"Yes, well…" The doctor looked slightly flustered at Sherlock's input, and moved swiftly on, referring to the next set of notes on his clipboard. "As there's no long term damage, he's ready to be discharged. I assume you will be taking him to live with you?"

"Of course," Mycroft answered. Although his father was still alive, he and Sherlock had taken most of what would otherwise be their inheritance already, to avoid their father spending it on drink and gambling. While most of it was in a separate bank account for later on in life, some of it had been spent on a larger apartment, with two bedrooms, and kitchen and a living room.

Once Mycroft had signed the discharge papers, he passed Sherlock his clothes, and pulled the curtains around his bed to let him change. Whilst he was waiting, he talked to the young lad on the desk at the ward. He was older than Sherlock, but no older than Mycroft. He had seemed nice – he had been Sherlock's doctor's son. He was also studying to be a doctor, and his dad had got him the work experience at the hospital. But, by the time Sherlock and Mycroft had got home, Mycroft had completely forgotten the boys name. Jack, Joe… J something. But that didn't matter. What mattered was making sure that Sherlock was alright.

"I've set up the spare bedroom for you."

"Uranium, atomic number-"

"Are you on your second time round the periodic table?"

He received a glare in return.

Mycroft gingerly sat next to his brother, unsure of what to say.

"You can stay here as long as you want," he settled for.

Sherlock's response was cold. "I'll stay here until my bones have healed. Then I'll leave. I know you don't want me here, and I don't particularly want to be here either."

Mycroft couldn't believe his ears.

"But Sherlock… where would you go? What would you do? You can't live in that big house all by yourself…"

Sherlock snorted. "I'm not going to live there – you are. I'm going to take the money Mummy left me and find a new place. There's a nice place in Baker Street that I've been looking at, and the landlady is in a spot of trouble. Maybe if I help her out, she'll give me a discount for the next, I don't know, 20 years or so until I can get a flatmate."

This was not the Sherlock Holmes that Mycroft had grown up with. This Sherlock was cold, hardened, unfeeling. It hit Mycroft like a train – he missed his baby brother.

"Sherlock… stay here, go to one of the local schools, or take the tube or something. I just… I care about you. And I don't want you to get hurt. I mean… hurt anymore."

This was the most emotion that Mycroft had shown, or even let himself feel, in years. It was almost tiring, opening up to someone like that.

"Caring is not an advantage," responded Sherlock. "Everyone I've ever cared for has let me down. Mummy, Father… you." And with that, he got up and went into the spare room.

It was then that Mycroft realised what he'd done. He'd been so selfish, so self-centred, he'd never realised what impact that was having on his brother, the only family he had left. He had single-handedly ruined Sherlock's trust in people, his trust in anyone or anything. He had set his brother up for a life of loneliness, hatred and isolation.

It was then that he vowed to himself to look after his brother, no matter what it took. He vowed to watch him, to make sure that he didn't get into any trouble, and to help him, no matter how unwanted it was. He knew that Sherlock would never forgive him, but that didn't matter. He would spend the rest of his life making sure that Sherlock was ok, and that Sherlock was safe.

He just hoped that, one day, someone would be able to break Sherlock's barriers. That one day, Sherlock would let someone in. That maybe, Sherlock might have a friend.

That, more than anything, would make it worth it.


End file.
